


Broken Crown

by thegrimshapeofyoursmile



Series: Across the Barricades [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Drama, F/F, F/M, February Revolution, M/M, October Revolution, Tsar Nikolai II - Freeform, World War I, lavender marriage, takes Part during 1914-1918, the Romanovs - Freeform, tsarevich Yuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2019-10-16 06:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17544890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrimshapeofyoursmile/pseuds/thegrimshapeofyoursmile
Summary: Ten years have passed, but time has not been good to Russia and the Romanovs. While unrest befalls the land, more voices cry for a new order and Rasputin’s influence poisons the court, Viktor suffers from severe melancholy. Apart from his lover and tired from a life that has never been easy for him, he tries his best to protect Yuri from harm - and yet, despite all sacrifices, war threatens to rip everything he loves away from him once more. // second part of “Gore and Glory”, historical AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello to every old and new reader! If you haven’t read the first part of this story yet, you might want to do that first, I think it is necessary to understand this part. Just like with part 1 of this series I tried to research everything as meticulously as possible. If anyone finds any error, please point it out to me and I’ll fix it!  
> And don’t be shocked by chapter 1 - it starts with a bang, but everything will be alright in the end. Maybe. Please pay attention to the warnings, they will change as the story progresses.
> 
> And now enjoy!

Lyudmila Petrovna Babicheva was not interested in men.

This had been quite a problem ever since she had transitioned into what her mother liked to call ‘blossoming maidenhood‘. Most of the men she had met so far had been dull and boring, starting with her father who had never been interested in anything but his property and the work that came with it. Growing up in Irkutsk and born into a quiet, generally withdrawn family that often was overwhelmed by her seemingly endless energy and temperament, she had always been surrounded by boys that were fun to roughhouse with – until they had realized in later years that she was a girl, soon to be a woman, and therefore could not be fought with because women should never be the fight; they had to be the prize. The suitors her mother had chosen for her had been honest and friendly, but so dull and without any spark of creativity that they bored her to tears. What was even more disappointing, yet not surprising in the least was the fact that none of them could imagine a woman matching their dim-witted intellect, or even surpass it – which Mila, having received a wide education at least and being an avid reader, achieved easily enough. And so she had declined each and every proposal brought to her until finally her mother had died, either from inconsolable disappointment over her oldest daughter’s behavior or from consumption. Mila did not miss her mother much; she had always felt estranged among the people that should have been closest to her, as if there was something that prevented them from understanding each other.

And yet, her mother’s death had been enough of a shock to the family that her usually so calm and reserved father who had relied all matters of marriage proposals to her mother decided to finally get involved. He had done so by putting his foot down and declaring that he did not like to have it so, but that Mila had left him no other choice than to cut her from her funds if she did not find an appropriate suitor in the course of the next two months. This proved to be quite unfortunate as it was her father’s finances that enabled her to follow her musical education in St. Petersburg as well as her other expanses, such as her education in Italy. The last part was the reason why her father had to inform her about his decision via letter since Mila currently was far away from him in sunny Florence as she found the current situation in Russia barely tolerable and had decided to take the offer of a talented Italian violinist to teach her. She had not been prepared for the beauty of her teacher, as Sara Crispino turned out to be one of the most stunning women she had ever seen, not only in physical appearance, but also in wit and talent. In the matter of a few days they had become inseparable; it was a life Mila wished would never end – and it didn’t have to, if she found a way to ensure it would not.

Fortunately, at roughly the same time her father’s letter had arrived, so had a possible solution to her problems in the form of Major General Viktor Ivanovich Nikiforov.

By the time he had settled comfortably into a small villa at the edge of town, Mila – who was well-acquaintanced with not only the part of St. Petersburg’s intelligenziya that was her circle back in town, but also all the Russians worth knowing that were currently staying in Florence – had learned all the facts and rumors worth knowing that existed about the man. Certainly she had heard of him in passing before – everyone living and working in St. Petersburg had. He was the constant, smiling shadow of Prince Yuri Georgievich Romanov, who still was secretly seen as the real tsarevich despite the existence of Prince Alexey Nikolaevich, and a glimmering, highly-decorated hero of the Russo-Japanese war who had aided in the making of the Treaty of Portsmouth. From the Russians in Florence, however, she learned things that surprised her: apparently he was friendly when approached, but distanced and withdrawn, mostly keeping to himself in his little villa and painting the entire time. Apparently his days were spent in the Gallerie degli Uffizi looking at and sketching paintings for hours, wandering the city and dining at small places without talking to anyone. Some of the Russians staying in town had introduced themselves over tea and lunch, as was custom. Viktor Ivanovich treated them politely, as was custom as well, yet equally politely declined all invitations for tea, balls, dinner parties in favor of painting the entire day. What exactly it was that he painted nobody knew, for nobody had seen even a single piece of his work so far.

And he was still not married.

As far as the general opinion was concerned, there were only a few reasons why a handsome man in Viktor Ivanovich’s age and financial situation was still not married. Either he was in love with someone he could not love, married to his work, secretly involved in some social scandal or there was something seriously wrong with him. Mila had her money on a healthy cocktail of most of those reasons, a slight suspicion that Viktor Ivanovich might understand her more closely than others when it came to matters of the heart. That suspicion was mostly founded on some of the more vague rumors saying that Viktor Ivanovich had been awfully close to a Japanese ambassador the year before the outbreak of the war, and the certain knowledge that he was close friends with the Yussupovs.

Either way, she found herself waiting for an opportunity to talk to the man himself, and was quite glad when such an opportunity presented itself two days later when she heard that he was visiting the Uffizi again. So she dressed in her best pair of black pants, her riding boots and a blouse she had acquired a few days ago, her dark-red coat and a black hat with a feather on it and strode out to arrange an accidental meeting in the museum. As usual, people stared when she walked around the streets like that. It was all the same; Mila did not intend to please anyone for the sake of it, at least for as long as she could help it.

She found him alone, sitting on a bench in front of the portrait of a man with sad, dark eyes and a half-smile. Viktor Ivanovich was hunched over a notepad, a pencil loose in his hands, yet he did not draw; he just looked at the portrait with a solemn, blue eye. The other eye had been replaced by a black eyepatch without any adornment. She could see why people considered him handsome because he was, his face angular and attractive in a quite distinguished slavic way. He was dressed with careful consideration that she approved of: a white shirt, a three-tailored suit in dark plum and polished shoes with a matching piece of cloth in his breast pocket. And yet he looked so…tired. She looked at him for a moment like someone looked at something that was precious and fragile, and for a moment she considered changing her plans.

Then she came closer and sat down next to him.

Viktor Ivanovich turned his head and smiled at her like someone would smile at an older acquaintance. “Are you familiar with del Sarto’s work?“

She nodded at the portrait. “Is that him? I have to admit, the only thing I know about him is Browning’s poem.“ She paused for a moment. How did it go again? “‘I often am much wearier than you think‘,“ she quoted softly, “‘This evening more than usual, and it seems..‘“

“‘As if – forgive now – should you let me sit here by the window with your hand in mine and look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, both of one mind, as married people use, quietly, quietly the evening through…‘“ He took a deep breath. His voice was gentle, but something shook in it like a dying bird when he continued, “‘I might get up to-morrow to my work cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.‘ Yes. I love that poem. Have you visited the Santissima Annunziata that he did the frescoes for?“

“Not yet,“ Mila answered slowly. Viktor Ivanovich hummed and looked forward at the portrait again. “But I would like to, if I had a decent guide who came with me.“ The corners of Viktor Ivanovich’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “I would love to be that guide, Miss…“

“Babicheva,“ she said and noted how his face instantly became more guarded, ever so slightly, even though he did not stop smiling. “Lyudmila Petrovna. Whom do I have the pleasure with?“

His smile turned a little warmer again. It was all very subtle, she noted, hidden only in small clues one had to look out for. “I am Viktor Ivanovich Nikiforov. Is this your first time in Florence?“

“Yes, but I’ve been staying here for a few weeks already, and I plan to make it a few more. I am a musician and I was fortunate enough to acquire signora Sara Crispino’s aid.“

His eyes took on a keen look of interest at that and he rose. “Please, accompany me a little through the museum, if you would like. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.“

“With pleasure,“ Mila replied and followed him, feeling both quite satisfied and as if she did not know exactly what she had gotten herself into. The man was more…intense than she had thought. And yet, neither his hands nor his eyes strayed as they walked along the corridors of the Uffizi. He carried himself tall and proud, hands clasped behind his back and his entire demeanor in such an attention-commanding fashion that it took Mila quite a while to even notice the very slight limp he had. There was an area around him that made her look at him consideringly; something about him made him seem untouchable, unreachable, alone.

“I admit that I am a little familiar with signora Crispino’s work,“ he continued their conversation, seemingly oblivious to Mila’s thoughts. “She plays first violin for the opera house, does she not? And I believe she works for the concert house as well? I loved her interpretation of Paganini’s Caprice No. 24, such strength, such intricacy. I was intrigued the whole time.“

“That was her,“ Mila confirmed and did not even need to pretend for warmth in her voice. “She is one of the best in Europe, I am very glad to have her. You are a musician as well?“

“Oh, no.“ Viktor Ivanovich smiled a little and waved the small notepad he was still holding in his hand. Mila noted that it was soft, worn leather with his initials on the cover, the pages thick and smooth. “I like to pretend that I am a little bit of an artist, but it is more of an indulgence, I suppose.“

“What is it you do, then?“

“Oh, mainly portraits,“ Viktor Ivanovich said and thus deflected her actual question with graceful charm and another smile. “I am fascinated with eyes, you see. At the Academy in St. Petersburg they teach you to always start with the eyes before you get anything else done – it is believed that you cannot properly finish a piece of art if the eyes are not correct. They are the soul of the piece. In Italy they are horrified if you do that; here, the entire magic lies in proportions. Until now I haven’t managed to do it any other than the Russian way, I am afraid.“

“There’s no shame in that,“ Mila said carefully and smiled.

Viktor Ivanovich smiled back at her, eye warm and somber. “Sometimes I wonder.“

 

The next two weeks were spent with carefully arranging for more time with Viktor Ivanovich without him noticing. Mila was glad for Sara’s help, who was way better at suble plans than Mila could have ever been and who supported her decision with the unwavering belief of a woman who had learned to chase strange strategies in order to live a life the way she wanted without being bothered by others too much. Mila would have liked a weaker man better; they were easier to manipulate. But the more time she spent with Viktor Ivanovich, the more she found his advantages quite agreeable: he was quick-witted and well-educated, eager to entertain and honestly interested in her academic and musical pursuit without the slightest inclination that he disapproved of it, very generous in the manner of old money and curteous towards everyone. The matter of politics he artfully avoided, talking instead about pleasant things only.

All of this helped overlook that he drank like there was no tomorrow.

He never was unpleasant towards her or any other person, but at some point Mila was quite sure she had not witnessed him fully sober even once, and he easily drank at least one bottle of wine on his own during every meal they shared. At last she decided that it did not matter much; it was hard to find a man without vices and Viktor Ivanovich had never shown any inclination that he had a tendency to resort to violence.

What she had probably underestimated, however, was how quick the man really was, and so he caught her by surprise when one evening, as they were slowly strolling across the Ponte Vecchio, he looked at her with an indulgent smile and said, “Forgive me if I am too forward, but I can’t help but feel as if there is something you want from me, and I cannot for the life of me figure out what it is.“

Mila blinked and came to a halt. They faced each other, standing next to the railing of the bridge while people milled about. “I’m afraid I don’t really follow, Viktor Ivanovich,“ she finally said.

Viktor Ivanovich smiled again and cocked his head. “Well,“ he said quite gently, “I do feel as if I am being pursued, but you lack conviction. I don’t wish to hurt you, but seldom have I been courted by a woman with less apparent romantic enthusiasm.“

Mila swallowed, her throat dry. She felt keenly that this conversation could make or break the entire project. “Well. I have been told that I can appear rather cold.“

Viktor Ivanovich’s smile broadened at that and he shook his head. “You, Lyudmila Petrovna, appear anything but cold. Please speak plainly. I promise that I will not judge and that I will do my best to aid you in whatever you need. I have grown rather fond of you.“

“As a husband would be fond of his wife?“

His expression dimmed a little and he slowly shook his head. “In that regard, my heart entirely belongs to someone else. I will never be able to give you that. But I do adore you like a brother would adore his sister.“

“That is more than enough,“ Mila murmured before she took a deep breath. That was great, even, even though she did not voice that thought out loud yet. “Under those circumstances it might be a little difficult to explain what you could help me with.“

“Try anyway,“ Viktor Ivanovich said gently. He listened intently and without taking his eye off of her as she talked about her education, her father, Sara. She knew that he knew when she talked about Sara and he nodded in that gentle, approving way one might show when someone you liked had found someone to give their heart to. Nothing changed in his facial expression and she found herself relax before she had even finished her story.

“So you would like me to ask you for your hand in marriage,“ Viktor Ivanovich summed it up. When she nodded mutely, he hummed and tapped his chin in a thoughtful expression. “Thank you for being honest with me. I will be honest with you in return, and I hope you are alright with this.“ Mila nodded again and he leaned a little more against the railing. “First, it is apparent that your sympathy for signora Crispino is a part of why you would like to gain financial independence. No, don’t say anything-“ He held up a hand when she attempted to speak. “I understand better than you might think – although, of course, I have shown you my paintings. Apart from that fact that connects us so strangely and wonderfully, I think it is a great injustice that women like you cannot pursue their passions as freely as men. But, Lyudmila Petrovna…“ He trailed off and sighed. “How old are you?“

“I am nineteen,“ Mila said and smoothed her dress. It was foolish to feel nervous; so far the discussion went better than she had thought it maybe would.

“I am twice your age,“ Viktor Ivanovich informed her, as if that fact had not been already known to her. “Do you really want to marry a man old enough to be be your father? And I am a man of many vices and demons, I will not lie. I will always be respectful, but I can be difficult to live with and even though I see no problem with purchasing a second house in Florence, you will have to spend a bit of time with me. Apart from that I can’t help but wonder what I would get out of it.“

At least Mila had an answer to that. She lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye. “I know that people talk about you. You might get a wife that actually is not interested in you that way, which would be a convenient way to ensure that you will be left in peace and those rumors will be dispersed. It would be easier to stay at Prince Yuri Georgievich’s side, wouldn’t it?“ When he remained silent but thoughtful, she pressed on, “I know how much he means to you.“

“Of course you do, everyone does who is a little familiar with these things,“ he agreed with a small smile that did not reach his eye. “But why me, exactly? I’m sure you could find another wealthy Russian man to marry you. It wouldn’t matter that you don’t love him; most marriages are based on convenience, not love. I will never give you children…although, if you ever told me you were with child I would take it in and call it mine, no questions asked.“

The words were a touching gesture, more so because of the pure honesty he spoke them with, and Mila felt something lift from her chest. Vices or not, he was a good man. She would be safe with him, perhaps even content whenever she had to be away from Sara, and independent of her father once and for all.

“I’d prefer to be honest with my husband-to-be,“ Mila thus replied and lifted her chin a little. “It makes things quite a lot easier, I’ve learned. And with you I can be sure that my passions are safe; you will not betray me, nor use matters of the heart against me. And you will gain the same thing in return. I will never ask questions whenever you’re away or meeting someone. I will be delighted to meet your beloved – and I will be here whenever you need me. In any case you will have a friend at your side, no matter what happens.“

“No matter what happens,“ he echoed quietly. For a long while, Viktor Ivanovich looked at her with an unreadable expression on his face. Mila leaned against the railing of the bridge and tried to reign in her impatience as she watched the sun caress the stones and wood of lovely, old Florence. Finally something seemed to change in Viktor Ivanovich; a deep, graceful sadness, achingly familiar in its fatalistic slavic nature, marred his handsome face while he smiled at her and, bowing ever so slightly, took her hand in his.

“Well,“ he said softly, “society has already taken so much from people like us, let it have this as well – and, perhaps, we shall create something new out of it. Let’s do our best then, shall we?“ His smile turned radiatingly warm and mischievous so suddenly that Mila grinned in surprised delight and squeezed his fingers; for a moment he looked boyish and youthful, not a year older than herself. “And introduce me to that ladyfriend of ours at some point – I’ve heard it is the secret of a successful marriage to know and honour your wife’s heart.“

 

*

 

“Katsuki Yuuri-sama?“

Yuuri looked up from where he was perched, running over his documents one last time in the nervous need to ensure that he really had everything he needed. After all, the journey from Japan to Paris was a strenuous, long one and it would be quite a while until he returned to the land he had been born in – if at all. There was hope in him that he would manage to stay in Europe, which decidedly held more opportunities to meet Viktor than Japan. Yuuri took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes; almost ten years ago, he had participated in peace negotiations – now, in the first January months of 1914, he wished for war out of purely egoistical reasons. How much things had changed. How much he had changed, weary from a difficult life and filled with desire to sit down somewhere, just sit, and quietly watch every coming sunset with Viktor’s unwavering presence next to him.

Yuuko, having bowed when she had felt his gaze on her, was still sitting in the doorway and patiently waiting for an answer. The years had been good to her; they had grown up under one roof, he the son of a diplomat from a former samurai family and she the daughter of his family’s servants, but the Katsukis had always been uncommonly friendly, almost familial with their servants. While Yuuri had more or less followed his father’s footsteps and dreamed of a lover he could not grasp for longer than a few days every other month, Yuuko had married a formidable man who was honest and good towards her and their three energetic young daughters. Now her face was full of laughing lines that crinkled around the corners of her lovely eyes and mouth ever so slightly when she smiled, and she smiled often, content with the life she led. Her presence in his parent’s house made it a little more bearable to leave them because he knew that they would be in good hands.

In an attempt to make up for his belated answer he smiled warmly. “What is it?“

“Katsuki Mari-sama would like you to join her for tea,“ she informed him, then paused and hesitated a little. “It would be good of you, Katsuki Yuuri-sama. Almost everything is packed already, and the young mistress will miss you.“

Yuuri sighed, then attempted another smile. “I know. Thank you, Yuuko.“

She bowed again and left. Yuuri, alone once more, looked around in the room that had been his for so long, biting his lip when his eyes wandered over the naked walls and empty furniture. Everything he needed, everything that was of essence had been carefully folded and packed away to be sent with him across the sea. With a deep sigh he unfolded his legs and got up, padding through the hallways of his parent’s home until he reached the tea room.

Mari was already waiting for him, her face – usually a little haughty, a little bored, but always beautiful in the rough, unfeminine way a beloved, uncut gem was – turned towards the door when he slid it open and smiled at her. He took his time to look at his sister who was fortunately already widowed after a quite short period of being married and who did not desire anything more than take over the family business the way Yuuri never could have done and the way she should. It was unfortunate that she had not been born a boy, unfortunate for her and for Yuuri; in this time and age they both would have delighted society more had it been so. As it was, Mari remained a good older sister and an unusual woman for her time, and Yuuri remained equally usual. Their family name would die with them if Mari would not decide to adopt someone into it to become her heir.

“Sit,“ Mari said and startled him out of his thoughts. A small, amused smile flitted across her face when she saw him obey. Yuuko, who had followed him into the tea room like a ghost, now started to pour the tea until Mari lifted her hand, just a little, to indicate that she should stop.

Yuuri smiled at the sight. “You should be a general. I’m sure people would gladly die for you.“

“Then it probably is a good thing I am not,“ Mari replied mildly and fiddled with one of the clips that held up her long, black hair in a comparatively simple fashion. “In my opinion, people should never die gladly for matters of war. But I am sure that is something I do not have to tell you, of all people.“

“No,“ Yuuri said softly.

“Please leave us, Yuuko,“ Mari said gently, to which Yuuko bowed before she left the room. Mari waited for a moment before she turned towards Yuuri again and asked without much further ado, “Will he be there as well?“

Yuuri looked down into his cup. Over the last years each member of his family had found out on their own that Viktor played a major part in Yuuri’s life and, Gods help them all, always would. His father, of course, had known when they had been in St. Petersburg in those few, glorious months of youth before the war, and then afterwards he had known for sure in Portsmouth. His mother, somehow, had known upon his return that he was suffering so harshly because he loved so deeply. It was hard to deny her anything and so Yuuri had given her a piece of that part of his heart as well, only to find her full of love in return. Mari had found out by needling and wheedling him in her part subtle, part unsubtle aggressive-loving way until he had caved in and hinted at so much that Mari had been able to figure out most of the story and even made him show her the only picture he possessed of Viktor: handsome and young in his uniform and a black eyepatch, taken by a photographer at Portsmouth. The man had been surprisingly witty and Viktor had been in high spirits, so in love and so in the moment, that he had laughed his brillant, beautiful smile without restraint, his gaze sliding from the camera towards Yuuri which a small, loving, tender inclination of his head. The photographer had captured him thus, and now Yuuri always kept the photograph close to him, a piece of Viktor always with him.

It was so little, so little, he was starving all the time.

But what a good, wonderful, loving family he had, a family that deserved a better son than he could ever be.

“I hope so,“ Yuuri finally whispered, not looking away from his cup. “He cannot leave the tsare- I mean, Yuri Georgievich, he won’t. But…I bought an apartment big enough for both of us, not far away from Ambassador Giacometti’s house. It is very bright, you know, perfect for painting. I’ll write him when I’m there, tell him to come, finally live together, maybe…it’s just a few months until the situation in Europe has sorted itself out and I’ve readied the apartment, and then…“

When he looked up, he found Mari watching him over the rim of her cup with dark, gentle eyes. His family, like almost every Japanese family, was not overly touchy and its members rarely even grazed each other. But now Mari reached out and loosely linked their hands together as she had done decades ago when they had both been children and Yuuri had cried himself hoarse because he had been afraid of ghosts in the dark.

“We cannot change the world, or the time that passes,“ she said in her calm, comforting way, “but you will always have a place to come home here, brother. And I will always be ready to find and kill whoever is hurting you.“

“Even if that someone is myself?“ Yuuri said quietly and half-involuntarily.

Never had he seen his sister so sad, so much her age as now when she slowly shook her head. “Then I will drag you out of every deep lake you will sink into, and I will come for you wherever you are, even if you are across the known world in the forgotten lands. We will always believe in you, even if you yourself do not. And we will always love you, even if you yourself cannot manage to.“ She gently squeezed his hand. “We need to be the people we are. It is a hard path, but what can we do? The heart wants what it wants. But you are not alone and never will be. I hope that he will come, and that I’ll find you both happy and safe when I come for a visit.“

Yuuri smiled at that. “You have to come. Paris is lovely.“

“Of course I will,“ Mari said and winked at him. “After all, a sister should know the special friend that makes her brother so happy, no?“


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back and thank you so much for all the feedback on chapter 1! Hopefully this chapter will be to your liking as well, though this is where the drama starts already. Also let me say that it was hilarious to let Yuri rage against the Austrians since I'm from Austria myself and know how much we messed up. At least we were not the only ones. :,)  
> The Lapin Agile is/was a real cabaret in Paris that was frequented by a lot of important artists and writers, one of them was Apollinaire. Go look it up sometime, if you like to know more about it!

“Your play is incredibly sloppy,“ Viktor said with a smile. “If this were an army and you were my general, I’d kill myself before your incompetence could cause me a slow and painful death. What is this, did nobody play chess with you while I was away?“

Yuri gritted his teeth and only barely resisted the urge to throw the chess board into Viktor’s face. It was a beautiful set, the pieces carved from pink marble and the board decorated in tiles of marble of the same color as well as leaf gilding. Viktor had brought it back from Florence, together with a ridiculously young wife he had neither warned nor told him about. He could hear her in the background even now, bustling about in Viktor’s manor that seemed to come to life after decades of deathlike slumber. Apparently she had decided to clean every room, even the ones nobody used anymore, and redecorate the ones that were. After an introduction that had been stiff and upset on Yuri’s side and lively on Lyudmila Petrovna’s, Viktor and Yuri had withdrawn into his study where they sat on the table that had always been there, under the window that had always been there as well, and played chess as they had always done.

“We were a little busy,“ he finally replied tersely, “what with the situation in Europe and such.“

Viktor snorted and reached for the bottle of whiskey beside him to pour himself another glass. “Yes, I am sure His Imperial Majesty had all his attention on the crisis in Europe and whether we would be ready for another war. Which we, by the way, are not. We lack the necessary gear and equipment because someone does not want to acknowledge that times have changed and is too busy looking for other distractions instead.“

“Don’t you think this is the kettle calling the pot black?“

Viktor paused, glass halfway to his lips, and looked at him with an unreadable expression. Yuri had been so small when he had lost his eye that he barely could remember a time where he had looked into Viktor’s face and seen it whole, with two eyes and not a trace of the scars slightly visible around the eyepatch. “I am not a Romanov.“

“Liar,“ Yuri said with a sneer, “Your mother belonged to the family.“

“And my mother is dead,“ Viktor replied calmly before he finished his movement and took a deep sip. Leaning back, he continued, “I know that I have my duties, but taking care of politics is not one of them. Then again, nowadays everything seems to be politics and nothing else.“

Yuri snorted and folded his arms in front of his chest. “I wonder why you even bothered to come back. It’s not the first time you fucked off for weeks on end to visit Europe and this time was the longest you’ve ever been away. Almost the entire autumn and winter!“

Viktor smiled enigmatically and finished off his drink in a fluid, practiced motion before he poured himself another one. “I like playing chess with you.“

“You like telling me how much I suck,“ Yuri muttered, but all the fight left him and he slumped back into his seat, looking out of the window. He scowled when he saw Lyudmila Petrovna’s fiery red hair between the flower beds that now, in the first days of January 1914, were asleep under a thick blanket of snow. Lyudmila Petrovna, clad in a coat of thick, black fur that seemed impossibly soft in the weak winter sun as well as a pair of boots and pants, did not seem to mind that very fact. She was talking animatedly to one of the servants, a bright-eyed young girl that seemed to listen to every word coming from her new mistress. “She sucks, too.“

“You don’t even know her yet,“ Viktor pointed out and smiled indulgently while he sipped his drink. “She is not that much older than you and has an excellent taste for music, you know. I’m sure you will get along splendidly once you’ve given her a chance.“

“And why should I do that?“

Viktor shrugged. “Suit yourself. You are not obligated to do so.“

For a moment there was silence. Yuri watched Viktor from the corner of his eye while Viktor had his eye closed and sipped his drink every now and then. The entire thing was a mystery to him; Viktor had never shown interest in marriage and if he had, he certainly would have been married already. After all, Yuri knew that there were many women of appropriate age and stand that had tried to gain his attention over the years, even though they had not directly talked about it in front of him. It was enough to watch the young women during balls and soirees where they both were invited to know, it was enough to listen to the gossip that was bound to spread through Tsarskoe Selo when there was an attractive, unmarried man of Viktor’s age. And yet Viktor had never listened, never answered, never been interested, his attention always flighty, always elsewhere. Why now, why this young woman Yuri had never heard of, a woman from a family in Irkutsk with certainly sufficient wealth and name, yet not of the high stand Viktor could demand from his wife?

“I can hear you think,“ Viktor remarked without opening his eye, still lounging in his chair and shifting his weight every now and then from one foot to the other so that his weaker leg was free. “Spit it out.“

“I wish you were honest with me,“ Yuri blurted out, much to his shame, and felt his cheeks grow hot. When Viktor’s eye opened in mild surprise, Yuri turned his head away and stubbornly looked out of the window again. “I wish anyone were honest with me, but it’s nothing but half-lies and evasive answers, just because I’m not…“ Because he was not was, exactly? He was not tsarevich anymore, standing behind every day and watching from the sidelines as Alexey was coddled, stupidly so because he was weak and probably would not last until his twentieth birthday. Yuri, however, was strong and intelligent and the people loved him – and that was exactly what made the tsar hate him, avoid him instead of using him the way he could have, should have. There was no real reason why Viktor had refused to become Alexey’s guardian, opting to remain responsible for Yuri instead, only to be away so often during the year, leaving Yuri to defend himself at a court that seemed to detest his very existence, his health, his clear and clever mind.

“What is it,“ Viktor said softly, setting his glass down, “that you want me to be honest with you?“

“I just don’t understand why you would marry her.“

For a moment Viktor was silent. When Yuri turned his head toards him, he smiled a little, tinged with sadness. “She needed my help. And perhaps I was…I thought it could be nice, having a permanent companion at my side.“ He sighed and finished his drink. “There was a time in my life where I thought that one could have everything if one only believed and worked hard enough.“ He poured himself another glass. “Now I know better. You can have someone without ever having them the way you want, the way you should. And through that, you remain alone with your nightmares, with the image you see when you look in the mirror. Maybe I thought that… it would help, having someone with me who understands – not fully, thank God, but at least a little. And I wanted to help her. If we have the means to help someone else live their life a little more as it should be, is it not our God-given duty to fulfill it?“ He raised his glass in a half-toast towards Yuri. “Perhaps that will be a question you have to ponder upon one day, when you are as old as me and responsible for an entire country. I know I left you alone for quite a stretch of time, but you need to grow into your own skin. If you cannot handle it now, you cannot handle it later, and then we’re all doomed. You are our last hope.“ He lowered his voice. “Not His Imperial Majesty, not the tsarevich, you.“ With a deep sigh, he slumped back into his chair and took another sip. “But then again, that was not part of what you were asking. Was that honest enough for your taste or do you need more?“

For a moment there was silence again. Yuri’s throat was dry and he wetted his lips in an attempt to speak.

“They don’t listen to me,“ he said after a while in a whisper. Viktor opened his eye and looked at him, glass half-raised, but he did not drink. They stared at each other for a moment before Yuri continued, more forcefully than before, “I know I’m young, but that’s what they educate me for, isn’t that right? Voicing my opinion, I mean. Ruling this country. There have been people of my age who have ruled over countries. And it’s not as if what I try to suggest is completely made-up on the spot – I listen, I watch, I do the math as best as I can and I think what I try to change is sensible enough, but they never really listen to me. It’s like talking to a wall. I think they hate me – uncle Nicky does, I’m pretty sure of it, and maybe aunt Alix too, though she likes that we can speak German with each other.“ He rubbed his face, suddenly feeling very small. “And I hate _him_ so much, uncle Vitya, I don’t know what to do. Ever since _he_ was introduced to uncle Nicky and aunt Alix, nothing has been the same.“

He did not have to say out loud who he was. Everyone knew of Rasputin, the shadow that followed the tsar and tsarina’s every footstep, that stood behind them and smiled, this ugly figure of a lowly peasant with no education who did not know and did not care for anything except a lavish life at the Russian court, fucking his way through the hardest and best times alike. Yuri was repulsed by him and his haughty behavior that lacked all justification of existence. He was a sly dog, Yuri had to give him that; by convincing Yuri’s aunt and uncle that he was the only one who was able to help Alyosha he had won their infallible trust. And still, Yuri just did not understand the almost religious fascination, the spell he had put on them; how could that have happened, with a man as unwashed and unkempt, as uneducated and aloof as Rasputin?

Viktor hummed and finished his movement from before, raising the glass to his lips for a final time before setting it down and standing up. Turning his back towards Yuri he opened one of his writing desk’s drawers and fished out a silver etui and a lighter. Yuri remembered a time where he had been small enough to think that Viktor was impossibly tall, taller even than the tsar himself. Perhaps things would have been different with someone like Viktor as the Russian emperor; despite all his vices, Viktor loved his country, loved his people first and foremost and thought that ignoring the upcoming socialist movements was a very dangerous thing to do and that an agreement should be reached instead. More than once Yuri had thought that installing a system similar to the British one would be a sensible thing to do; the Duma Nikolai II. had been forced to install after what happened at Bloody Sunday in 1905 was nothing like the British parliaments. The Octobrists had, in Yuri’s opinion, the best ideas for that matter and Yuri was glad that their fraction was a big part of the progressive block of the Duma parties in the opposition. Yuri dreamed of a Russia opening up not only to other countries, but in itself, creating more freedom, diversity, listening more to people’s needs, a second Peter-the-Great-regency, only even better, even more. He could do it. He knew he could, was sure of it – if they would only let him. If only Alexey was dead. Yuri did not care for his cousin in the least; he was a bratty, sullen boy who knew very well that he could do anything anywhere he wanted because his parents adored their only son so much. It was a shame that the girls were excluded so much from political discourses since all of their minds were fresh and bright and there was sympathy in their heart.

“You have to be patient, Yura,“ Viktor finally said and slumped back into the chair, stretching out the leg that had been wounded so many years ago and now always got a little stiff during colder weather. Perhaps that, too, had been a reason why Viktor had been gone for so long, but Yuri decided that he was still mad at him anyway. “You’re sixteen now, and I know that there have been rulers your age, but that never ended well. It is an incredible pressure, being responsible for so many people. I’m sure you don’t like hearing it, but enjoy your youth while you can; it passes by so quickly. And we both know that the chances that you will be ruler and not Alyosha are very high.“ He sighed and opened the silver etui to take out a cigarette. Lighting it, he took a deep drag and continued, “Things will look different when you are eighteen. They can’t ignore your opinion any longer then, and they know, deep down, that they need you. Sympathy for the tsar and tsarina has been dwindling for years now, we have to be honest here. But you – the older you get, the more people adore you.“ With a smile, Viktor regarded him with a benevolent expression softened by the smoke that curled around him in lazy swirls. “Never forget that.“

“But maybe we don’t have time to be patient,“ Yuri hissed in annoyance, half-rising from his chair and gesturing wildly. “Europe is a mess, the god-damned Austrians stirring everyone up and the Germans and Brits only waiting to try out their new weapons, war may be inevitable! And the tsar does nothing, nothing at all, and he keeps me and everyone else from doing something as well! God, I hate all of this so much, I hate that my hands are tied, I hate that you only tell me to be patient and do nothing to make this better.“

“And what exactly do you want me to do, Yuri?“ Viktor asked softly between two drags of smoke. “Should I walk over to His Imperial Majesty and just demand that he should hand over the crown to you right away? Should I tell him that he should stop mooning over a charlatan already, throw him out and finally fufill his God-given duty instead? I’m sure he would be glad to hear that, and I’m especially sure there would be no negative consequences coming out of it at all.“

Yuri pressed his lips tightly together and said nothing. Viktor regarded him with a small, resigned smile and once more looked outside where Lyudmila Petrovna was gesturing wildly towards one of the rose bushes that Viktor’s mother had planted decades ago and which now lay in soft slumber under a blanket of snow, dry and leaf-less waiting for sunnier days. Yuri watched him sigh and rub his eye, and not for the first time he wondered what Viktor really was thinking, wondered in silence about the strange fact that you could know a person for a long time, secretly consider them close family even, and yet not know anything about them at all.

*

“He truly seems to be a handful,“ Mila remarked over dinner. While she was eating heartily – she had invited one of their neighbors to a hunt on their grounds the day before and they had proceeded to shoot a few ducks that together with mashed potatoes and carrots as well as an excellent sauce flavored with hints of orange made for quite the feast –, Viktor was listlessly picking at his plate, yet had managed to empty half a bottle of red wine on his own already while Mila was still at her first glass. Ever since they had returned, Viktor’s pattern of behavior had taken a turn for the worse, and the thought concerned her.

At her remark, at least, he looked up and slightly cocked his head. “What do you mean?“

“Your protégé,“ Mila clarified with a smile. “I’ve heard stories of his temper, but I’ve never experienced it in person. I might know quite a few people of Piter’s intelligentsiya, but I’ve never really operated in those circles.“

“Well, those circles are now your circles, too,“ Viktor said mildly. “I won’t force you to accompany me, but I do get invitations from important people every now and then and even though His Imperial Majesty has chosen to refrain from celebrating with larger crowds in the last few years, you might stumble over one or more of his daughters and members of the inner circle at certain occasions.“ At that, at least, he smiled like he used to in Florence every now and then. “If you think that Yura ist quite the handful, wait for his cousin. At least the boy is not inclined to play pranks, while Nastya loves them and pranks people with complete disregard of their social stand or any other unnecessary matters. She is very good at it, too, the little devil.“

“You seem to be very fond of her as well.“

Viktor smiled quite fondly indeed. “I have to admit that she might be my favorite among the girls. She has the same spirit as Yura, it’s a very, hmmm, Romanov attitude. The best ones had it – Peter the Great, even Catherine the Great.“

“But she was German.“

“Ah.“ Viktor carelessly waved her remark away. For a moment his eyes were bright. “She was Russian through and through, doesn’t matter where she was born. Do you know how many people of German ancestry we have in this country? And all the European royal families are related in one way or another anyway. I tell you, she was a Romanov as purely Russian in heart and spirit as the rest of them. Now the tsarina – that is a German princess that will never be anything else – but that’s only because she doesn’t love this country and thus doesn’t want to be a Romanov, no matter how fond she is of His Imperial Majesty.“

“Are they really in love?“ Mila wondered aloud between two bites. “I never know what to make of stories like these, but apparently it was a marriage out of love, wasn’t it?“

“Oh yes, that it was.“ Viktor smiled again and finally took a few small bites of duck before he continued, “And they still love each other very much, believe it or not. I like them best when they are not rulers of my country, but just a married couple that has never wanted anything else but each other. I know that people wonder about the real nature of their relationship to Rasputin, but I’m pretty sure that whatever happens there, it is a consensual agreement. I find it quite hard to imagine anything else.“

“Well,“ Mila  finally said with a shrug, “in any case, I’d be delighted to see more of the prince. I could go on a hunt with him. Did you know that you have a huge boar problem in your woods?“

“Is that so?“ Viktor replied with a gentle smile and a sip of wine. “I never cared much for hunts, but Yura is an excellent rider and has a keen eye for tracks. It would probably be a good idea. He still has to warm up a little towards you, I’m afraid.“

“Is that so?“ Mila playfully repeated his own words back at him and smiled in satisfaction when he laughed a little. “What did I do to fall in a sixteen-year-old’s disgrace?“

“I’m not sure, but in any case it is my fault, I think,“ Viktor admitted. “Either it’s because I did not tell him that we married before our return to Russia, or it’s because you are only a few years older than him. I can see why he might find that disconcerting, especially since my actual romantic partners have always been older, even the women.“

Mila lowered her fork and parted her lips in slight surprise. “You have been involved with women as well? I didn’t know that, you didn’t tell me!“

Viktor was too polite to laugh at her expanse, but his eyes twinkled with mirth. “I have, dearest wife, and I didn’t tell you because you didn’t ask and because I didn’t consider it that important. Generally I find people of both sexes attractive, although there has been nobody else I was involved with besides my Yuuri after I met him.“

“But surely for a quick tumble every now and then – I love Sara with all my heart and I know I can say the same for her, but a woman has needs and surely you have, too!“

Viktor shrugged and picked up his glass of wine again. “I stopped three or four years ago. There just…suddenly I didn’t see the point anymore. I want to be with him, not with someone else only to feel less lonely – which, by the way, did not work. It just made me feel worse. Perhaps if I were younger…but I have been intimate with enough people in my life, I only want the one. And sometimes I see him, and then I have him. That ought to be enough.“

“I see,“ Mila said gently and watched him for a moment. His gaze was lowered, silvery eyelashes brushing his cheek. He had to have looked like an angel in younger years, she thought absently, with a younger face of even more beauty and absent from all traces of a life that had wrecked him. “Do you still feel lonely with me around, dearest husband?“

He lifted his gaze and studied her for a while before he finally smiled very faintly. “A little less so,“ he murmured and reached over to pat her hand in a tender gesture before releasing her again. His fingers were cold. “Yes. A little less so, and that is worth much these days.“

*

Paris was loud.

It was loud and bustling and very French. One had to like that, the Frenchness, and luckily Yuuri found it likeable enough. He hated the days of unboxing, his new maid bustling about in a frenetic attempt to settle everything as well as possible, but he loved the view from his – their, hopefully – tiny balcony with its beautifully decorated railing. From there he could see a wide stretch of streets filled with tiny cafés where people sat and smoked while they gestured and talked loudly, streets cobbled with grey stone and lined with healthy, tall trees that would likely be in full bloom and brimming with leaves once spring and summer hit the city. There was a high amount of automobiles rattling across the cobblestones, way more than Yuuri had experienced in Japan. People did not seem to mind the conflicts that were brewing and festering all throughout Europes; for them everything seemed to be alright, nothing out of the ordinary.

Yuuri sighed and rubbed his temples.

“Cheri!“

He could not help but smile while he turned around. Even Christophe seemed more French than ever in Paris and Yuuri could not imagine him living anywhere else for a longer period of time. Perhaps that was the reason why he had moved from Switzerland into the city so young and without ever looking back. Yuuri had to admit that the man had been a tremendous help from the start, organizing an affordable apartment in a decent district and perhaps even making sure that Yuuri was able to comfortably afford the rent for quite a while. The apartment Yuuri lived in was part of a house belonging to a landlady that did not ask any questions as long as the rent was paid in time and who had a daughter that had been glad to be hired as a maid to help a bachelor out. She had stared at his face in astonishment when they had first met, but had quickly gotten over her ‘exotic shock‘ and now proved to be an excellent help with a keen eye for details, even though she seemed a little overwhelmed by the amount of boxes that were still standing around in the entire apartment.

Chris did not seem to mind in the least. Even that was very French, the way he simply stepped over the boxes or made a beeline around them as if they were not even really there, throwing a beaming smile at Yuuri and kissing him left, right, left on his cheeks. He wore a three-piece-suit in light blue with a yellow breast pocket tissue and a hat with a band in the same shade of yellow around the brim. On everyone else – well, apart from Viktor perhaps – the thing would have looked atrocious, but Chris wore it with such effortless grace that Yuuri felt almost shabby in his black pants and white shirt.

“I thought I might take you out for dinner, cheri,“ Chris now declared and took Yuuri by his shoulders to give him a critical glance. “You look a little pale. Moving into a different country is such a pain, is it not? I mean, I can’t exactly remember much of my own move and my mother supported me very much, but Switzerland is much closer to Paris than Japan, that made it easier, I think. And you work too hard, I bet you didn’t eat a single thing of substance since your arrival in Paris. Vitya would never forgive me if I didn’t take care of you.“

“Well, as long as you don’t take care of me too much…“ Yuuri said drily, which caused Chris to laugh an slap his shoulder before he released him.

“I promise I will be as decent as possible,“ he said with a wink. “Get your jacket, I’ll treat you.“

Yuuri sighed, but by now he knew better than to try and argue, so he did as he was told. He had spent quite some time with Christophe by now and understood why he and Viktor had become such good friends in their youth. The fact that they had known each other for so long also meant that he had been treated with quite a few stories about the younger days in his lover’s life which amused him to no end. Chris himself had proved to be an incorrigibly indecent man with no sense of shame at all, but he also turned out to be extremely reliable and loyal. Surprisingly enough he was good at keeping secrets if they were important, something Yuuri should have expected given his position as an important French ambassador, but somehow would have never connected with Chris, who loved nothing more than gossip about people they both were acquaintanced with and who knew everything worth knowing about everyone worth knowing.

It was a cold, fresh winter evening and Yuuri turned up the lapels of his coat against the wind, wishing for the scarf he had forgotten in the apartment yet unwilling to return for it. They chatted about everything and nothing while they crossed the streets and slowly found their way to Montmartre where Chris and Viktor had spent many a day in their youth and where both of them still inevitably landed whenever they had to choose the way around Paris. Above them loomed the recently finished Sacre-Cœur, a beautiful piece of France that seemed to ewoke a lot of pride in Chris who never tired of repeating that it would remain an important piece of Paris for centuries to come, for sure. Yuuri was inclined to agree. He smiled at the building, wishing he could hold Viktor’s hand while doing so; then they turned into one of the little streets that made Montmartre so charming until they reached rue des Saules and walked into the _Lapin Agile_.

The small cabaret was one of Yuuri’s favorite places in the entire city and very beloved by many artists, among them even a few well-known ones. Yuuri spotted Apollinaire, who smiled and waved at them for a moment before bending over his work again, busily scribbling something on a piece of paper. The owner of the _Lapin Agile_ knew Chris very well and threw a cheery greeting at them from behind the corner, which Chris returned in his quick French with only the barest hint of Swiss accent left before he found them a nice little table not too far away from the stage, yet not too close so that they could talk to each other without fear of having to yell.

“Did you hear anything from him?“ Yuuri asked as soon as they had sat down and he had shrugged out of his coat. “It’s been a while since his last letter…I’m a little worried.“

Chris hummed a little, opened the buttons of his coat and rummaged around in the inside pocket before handing him a letter. “Thank you for reminding me, cheri, this came two days ago for you. I apologize, I’ve neglected my correspondence a little in the last days and forgot about it. You need to tell him your new adress, I think.“

“Don’t worry about it,“ Yuuri responded with a smile and took the envelope, holding the thick, cream-colored paper in his hands and looking down at the red seal with a quite familiar crest in the middle: a highly stylized N on top of a griffin. “Busy, hmm? Who did you meet?“ he asked cheekily while breaking the seal and opening the letter.

“Oh, well, I met this very charming young fellow from Thailand. A fascinating guy, really, he is looking for new trade partners and I told him I was very interested in his offers. Phichit is his name, Phichit Chulanont – ah, I need to introduce you to each other, I’m sure you’ll like each other very much. Not only does he have such a handsome little face, he is also quite the charismatic one – oh dear, Yuuri, are you alright?“

Yuuri had gone pale while Chris had talked, not tearing away his gaze from the letter in front of him. He could not believe what his own eyes saw. Trembling, he read the rows of Viktor’s loopy, sloped handwriting once one, wishing that it had been merely a cruel trick of the mind.

_My love_ , the letter read, _I hope this letter finds you well as soon as you arrive at Paris. I’ll send it in high hopes to Chris‘ adress no matter what and I would wish for your new adress as soon as you are able to write me back._

_I wondered how to write this letter for quite a while. It is is not an easy one; I have something to admit and I am not sure how you will react, althought I do wish that with all the hardship we have survived so far, this too shall pass. You see, I need to tell you that I have not been entirely honest with you about my stay in Italy. I did not lie to you – I would never – but I did not tell you everything that happened there as well. But now that I have returned to Russia, I cannot find it in myself anymore to omit this very important information, especially since chances are high that you might hear it from someone else and that, my love, is nothing I would wish for. Please take this letter for what it is: another expression of my deep and honest affection for you that will never belong to someone else, no matter what happens or has already happened._

_You see, a young woman approached me and asked for my help. Just like me Lyudmila Petrovna is in a situation where she cannot be with the person she loves the most out of social obligations, and additionally she would have remained penniless for the rest of her life had she not found a husband in time. This husband is me. I agreed to marry her in order to make her life a little easier, and mine admittedly as well. You know that I care for you like I care for nobody else in the world. To be able to love and cherish you is one of the few reasons I live for. But it is a lonely life, this life that I lead, and no part of me really belongs to myself. I lived alone in a house that I despise because it reeks of my father’s presence, and the garden my mother loved so much lies still and dead in Russia’s hard winters. People talk about me behind my back all the time; I have to smile and pretend I don’t know, even though I know everything. In younger days it didn’t bother me; now I see all the knives that could kill and, more importantly, sever the only other important connection I have in my life so that I would perhaps have needed to part with Yura if things had turned sour. And getting older means inevitably thinking of whom to give all of my belongings to. I shall gladly will everything to you that could be of importance to you, but you never cared about my land or my houses and you could not take them over even if I wanted you to; you are not Russian, and just like before this sadly proves to be a hindrance in the eyes of others when it comes to land and titles. But perhaps the most important factor is that – it pains me to write this, but you don’t know, can’t ever know how wretched I am by now, how desperate. I feel it in my bones, this slow, agonizing process of dying, a sickness that seems to spread through my entire being. My days are black without you and the sun only shines for me when I’m in your arms, but I can’t be with you forever and I need someone to drag me out of it every now and then._

_Please understand that this marriage is purely a marriage of convenience. I like Lyudmila Petrovna very much and I think that you would see that she is a fine young woman of excellent breed, but I do not love her like a husband should love her wife and her heart is elsewhere as well. We are merely friends supporting each other as friends, as chaste with each other as the Mereshkovskys (1). My heart still belongs to you, will always belong to you until I am still and cold in my grave, perhaps even longer than that if I can help it. I beg you, give me an answer soon. I need to hear from you, crave some piece of your presence in my life. Hopefully Paris welcomes you with open arms and kisses you in my stead. With all my love, Viktor._

“Oh, dear,“ Chris said softly, bent over the letter Yuuri had handed him wordlessly. Looking up at Yuuri he quickly reached for his breast pocket tissue and handed it over towards him. Yuuri pressed the yellow piece of clothing against his eyes with a deep, shuddering sigh, feeling every break, every tear in his heart so keenly that he thought he would have to die right there and then. He started when Chris‘ fingers found his own and gently patted the back of his hand. “It will be alright. He still loves you and nobody else. A marriage never stopped anyone from being in love with someone. Write him back, cheri, tell him – yes, tell him that the embassy owns a telephone now where he can reach you, give him a date and time where he can call you. You need to speak with each other, then everything will be alright for sure. Dry your tears, cheri – oh – no, don’t cry, my dear, nothing happened. He is still yours, you know? He is still yours to keep.“

Perhaps Chris was right, Yuuri thought, his face still pressed against the tissue as hot tears ran freely over his cheeks. For a moment he felt all his years, all the time where he had to be parted from Viktor – Viktor, who had chosen to bend and give in, tie himself even closer to his home country. Viktor, who would probably never come to live with him, not in Paris, not anywhere else. Viktor, who was tired, so tired, and Yuuri could do nothing to make it better – even worse, who felt tired as well. Perhaps, he thought not for the first time in the last years, perhaps it was time to end this. He needed to write a letter, desperately so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) It was said that the marriage of Zinaida Gippius and Dmitriy Mereshkovsky remained unconsumed, even though they were married for over 50 years. One of those that claimed this was Zinaida Gippius herself. See also: "Zinaida Gippius: A Difficult Soul" by her close secretary Vladimir Zlobin (a great read about a remarkable woman!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It‘s been a while, but I finally managed to finish more chapters for this story as well as do a proper outline from start to finish. Better late than never, I guess :,)

Viktor woke up on the chaiselongue in the library, a blanket thrown over his form.

His head was pounding and there was an unpleasant, velvety taste in his mouth. On top of that his entire body felt stiff and he groaned with effort as he sat up and stretched in an attempt to gain back some feeling in his hands and feet. There it was, he thought with a wry smile; he had definitely become too old to fall asleep anywhere else than in a bed.

He had no idea what time it was, other than that it had to be somewhere between seven in the morning and six in the evening because light filtered in through the high windows of the library. He was not even sure of the exact date.

A half-empty bottle of red wine sat on the table next to the chaiselongue. He took it with him without thinking about it and left the library, climbing the stairs and taking a swig from the bottle as he met the eyes of his father’s portrait. _Bastard_ , he thought into his direction, _are_ _you_ _happy_ _with_ _the_ _son_ _I’ve_ _become?_ _Did_ _I_ _finally_ _fulfill_ _your_ _expectations_? _Look_ _at_ _the_ _beautiful_ _wife_ _I_ _have_. _She’s_ _almost_ _as_ _young_ _as_   _mother was when you married her._ For a moment he thought that his father’s eyes looked even sterner, the cruel twist of his mouth deepening.

The wine was stale on his tongue; he swallowed anyway since it helped with his headache, then he briefly touched his mother’s gentle smile and moved on to his bathroom. Only a maid saw him on his way and she curtsied politely before she quickly scuttled away at his facial expression that made it quite clear that he did not wish for anything at the moment. Well, that was not quite true, but there was nothing his servants could do for him.

He had not heard from Yuuri in four weeks.

Realistically he knew that it took at least ten to twelves days for a letter from Paris to reach him in St. Petersburg, but that did nothing to quell the fear in his heart. What if he had not gotten his letter? What if he had, and had decided that he wanted nothing to do with Viktor anymore? He gritted his teeth and finished the bottle before placing it on the counter next to the washing basin. The look in the mirror was unavoidable, but also quite unwelcome; he did it anyway and stared at his reflection for a long while, taking in the crow’s feet around his bloodshot eyes and the purple shadows underneath them, the hollow cheeks, the thick, silver stubbles on the lower half of his face. Eating had been a necessity in the past months – perhaps even years –, not a pleasure, and it showed.

He looked up when the door swung opened; his wife leaned against the door, arms crossed in front of her chest as she regarded him with a raised eyebrow, so he attempted a smile. “Good morning.“

“It’s eleven,“ she replied, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth until it bloomed into a full smile. She looked fresh and crisp, wearing a dress in dark green and a suitable green bow in her hair. Fragile silver earrings dangled from her lobes and matched the collar around her neck. “But yes, good morning, dear husband. Did you sleep well in the library?“

He winced and felt guilty, even though he did not know why. “I assume that it was you who gave me that blanket?“

“Well, what would you do without me?“ she laughed, “I couldn’t wake you up, so I did the best I could. Hurry up and get dressed now, though, we’ll have some light lunch and then we’ll go visit the Mereshkovskys.“

“What? Why?“

“Look at you,“ Mila replied in her brutal honesty, “you’re a mess, Vitya, you haven’t shaved in three days and you haven’t left the house in five. You smell like a dead bear and you look like a corpse that has been fished out of Lake Baikal after floating in it for at least two weeks. You’re going to wash your face, shave off that ugly carpet from your cheeks that makes you look like a Muscovite from the olden days and then we’ll go see some of your friends.“

He groaned and turned away to press his face against the cool marble of the wall. Mila reached out and pinched his cheek hard enough that he yelped. “But I don’t want to see anyone! Well, apart from Yura, perhaps.“

“Exactly, which is the problem. You need to talk to people older than the prince, so let’s go. Don’t try to argue, just be a good boy, yes?“ She pinched him again until he grumbled in agreement, then smiled and left, gently closing the door behind her.

Viktor sighed deeply before he decided that it was impossible to argue with that woman, so he did as he had been told. By the time he was a decent human being again, he had bathed and shaved, dressed nicely, but not too formal for a visit to good friends. He had not seen Dmitriy and Zinaida Mereshkovsky in quite a while, not since he had married, although Zina had written him a rather lovely letter congratulating him on it as soon as she had heard the news, to which he had replied a few words of gratitude. Then again, he had not been very active in his usual circles for the longest time in general, so perhaps Mila had a point.

He entered the eating room and took his place, smiling when he found his wife with her legs crossed in a rather unfeminine fashion and engrossed in the _Peterburgskaya_ _Gazeta_. She briefly looked up at him and gave him a smile, yet soon her attention was on the newspaper again until he cleared his throat, which made her look at him again. “Have you already informed the Mereshkovskys that we will visit them today?“

“I haven’t no, I thought they kept an open salon today. Would you have wanted me to?“

“No, no. I wanted to ask you if it would be alright to visit someone else instead. After all, you only want me out of the house, no?“

Mila closed the newspaper and looked at him critically. “Well, not entirely so, to be frank with you. I heard that Madame Mereshkovsky – or rather, Madame Gippius I should say, since I do consider her name as an accomplished author more important than the name she merely took from her husband – has an eye for talented young artists and therfore leads a quite interesting circle.“

Viktor hummed and allowed their servant to put their meal on the table: thick, creamy solyanka just the way he liked it, a perfect entré for the main dish. “We can visit them afterwards, Zina never really sleeps anyway and she loves guests. I’m sure she would be pleased to hear you perform if that’s what you like, Milenka. I was just wondering if it is alright with you to visit the Feltsmans first.“

“The Feltsmans? You mean General Feltsman and his wife?“ Mila clapped her hands together in visible delight. “Madame Baranovskaya will forever remain one of the most beautiful and talented prima ballerinas the Bolshoi theatre has ever seen. I was so glad when she agreed to become a teacher at the Mariinsky. I’ve always wanted to talk to her, she is one of my inspirations.“

“Of course she is,“ Viktor said with a small smile. “I owe them much and I’ve heard that Yakov isn’t well at the moment, so I would like to visit them. At that occasion I can also introduce you to each other, though I think you might come to like Yakov as well.“

“Well, alright then,“ Mila said with a smile, “let us do it your way.“

 

The Feltsmans lived in a beautiful apartment, located in the second floor of a pretty building along one of Piter’s many, many channels. Viktor, having emerged from their automobile, gallantly offered Mila his arm. His wife smiled with obvious amusement, but indulged him and followed him into the building, up the stairs until they reached the apartment door that already stood slightly ajar. A servant was waiting in the entrance and bowed slightly before asking for their name. Viktor told him and the servant disappeared into the apartment. They waited for a moment until the servant returned and asked them to please follow him. After taking their coats, he led them into the salon where they found Lilia Mikhailovna on the magnificent Steinway grand piano.

Time seemed to hold no real power over Lilia Mikhailovna, who showed barely a wrinkle for a woman in her seventies and whose black hair arguably was a little thin in the severe bun she had tied it into, yet only held a few streaks of silver in it. Her face had the same sharp beauty of a razorblade as ever, only accentuated by the fact that she was well aware that she was not a young girl anymore. And still, the way she held herself as her fingers slid over the keys was as graceful and poised as ever, every inch of her the former prima ballerina of the Bolshoi theatre, a master of dance until the end. She looked up when Viktor and Mila entered the salon and did not smile, but the gaze in her sharp green eyes softened almost imperceptibly and she stood up, neatly arranging the folds of her simple black dress before walking over towards them.

“Viktor,“ she said and allowed him to take her hand and kiss the air above it with a bow of honest admiration, “I haven’t seen you in ages. We were sure you had left the land for good, but then I heard of your wife.“ Her gaze slid over towards Mila who immediately straightened and curtsied, which seemed to please Lilia Mikhailovna enough that she allowed herself the ghost of a smile.

“I humbly apologize, Lilia Mikhailovna, and I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me since I was busy settling into married life,“ Viktor responded and straightened as well until she harumphed. “Allow me to introduce you to Lyudmila Petrovna, my wife. Mila, this is Lilia Mikhailovna, a woman I owe very much and who is very dear to me.“

“Stop it with the compliments,“ Lilia Mikhailovna demanded, but she faintly smiled again and offered Mila her hand. “I am pleased to meet you. My husband and I thought that Viktor would probably remain a bachelor until his death.“

Mila shook it, seemingly starstruck. “I am honored to meet you, Lilia Mikhailovna, I have heard so much about you!“

“Is that so?“

While Mila began to tell Lilia Mikhailovna how much she adored her and why, Viktor found himself distracted by the man that entered through a door on the other side of the room. Yakov Semyonovich Feltsman had always been an imposing figure, but Viktor noted with a pang that age had not been as good to him as it had been to his wife. His hair that had been thinning for the last decades already was now fully white and almost gone. He moved slower than he ever had, still an impressively tall, broud-shouldered figure, but Viktor could see that he had become decidedly thinner and seemed more tired than he had ever seen him. With sudden, blinding clarity Viktor realized that Yakov Semyonovich had survived Viktor’s father for several decades now and that he was an old man. It was strange; Viktor had often thought about his own death, sometimes even longed for it, but something inside of him childishly denied that Yakov Semyonovich was only mortal, too, and that one day – one day that likely was not that far away anymore – he would die and leave him. Now matter who much hardship Yakov Semyonovich had survived, how many wars, how many conflicts, death would claim him as well, without making any difference.

Something closed off in Viktor’s throat. He could not speak, but Yakov Semyonovich had found him and now moved over towards him, and for a moment he was the spirited, powerful figure he had always been, a bear of a man that had basically raised Viktor without ever having children of his own.

“Vitya!“ he yelled, his voice booming through the room and while Lilia Mikhailovna did not even bat an eyelash, Viktor smiled while Mila looked slightly alarmed at first, her gaze turning curious soon enough. “For weeks I don’t hear anything from you – weeks! Months, even! You don’t write letters, you don’t write notes, silly child, you just disappear like an unruly school boy! Oh, I wish you still were one, I’d beat some sense into you, but now it’s too late! And then you turn up on my doorstep without any previous announcement and a wife on your arm!“

Viktor smiled and hugged Yakov Semyonovich, who startled and ceased his yelling as he automatically returned the embrace. “I missed you,“ Viktor confessed, “Don’t be mad at me. Allow me to introduce you to Lyudmila Petrovna instead. Her family is from Irkutsk.“

Yakov Semyonovich looked her up and down as Mila curtsied with a smile and her usual platitudes. “Ah, she’s beautiful,“ he at least allowed grumpily before thundering on, “but so young! Look at him, Lyudmila Petrovna, you could have done better, a fine woman like you in her best years, why take him! Yes, yes, I know, he has many medals and a fine house, but that won’t you do any good with that restless soul of his, always spirited away by one thought or another! Flighty like a young bird! He doesn’t want to realize his age, he still thinks he is young enough to be allowed everything!“

“That reminds me of someone,“ Lilia Mikhailovna commented drily, which caused Yakov Semyonovich‘s head to turn red, either from rage or embarrassment. Before he could say anything else, however, Lilia gestured towards the sofa where a servant had already prepared a beautifully ornamented silver samovar and several matching cups. “Please, have a seat. I would like to hear more of how this relationship came to be.“

Viktor and Mila gladly agreed, and the two couples sat down together on the sofa and the two matching high-backed chairs, comfortably stretching out four pairs of legs. Russian black tea was poured in four cups and they drank every now and then as Viktor and Mila told them a romanticized version of their beginnings and the engagement.

“I will never forgive you that I was not invited to your wedding,“ Yakov Semyonovich roared, yet seemed pacified by his sitting position and a warm drink in his hand for he quickly turned down the volume again.

“Nobody was,“ Viktor replied and found himself wishing for wine instead of tea. Perhaps when they had moved on to the Mereshkovskys. “It was just us and the priest, nobody else was involved.“

Lilia Mikhailovna and Yakov Semyonovich shared a quick, unreadable gaze that caused Mila to smile into her cup.

“Well,“ Lilia Mikhailovna said at last, “You are so thin, Lyudmila Petrovna, I don’t think we can assume that you are with child?“

“No, none of that,“ Mila replied with a laugh and slightly shook her head as if the idea alone was absurd before she threw a gentle, loving gaze at Viktor and lowered her eyes a little as if in slight shame. “We were just that much in love with each other, I suppose.“

She was a good actress, Viktor had to give her that, since she neither over- nor underdid it. But it was not enough to fool Lilia Mikhailovna, who merely frowned and seemed to be deep in thought, yet to Viktor’s relief held back with another comment. Yakov Semyonovich, on the other hand, seemed a little moved by her words for he only grunted and then nodded towards Viktor in an unusually gentle fashion to show his approval. Strange, Viktor thought to himself, utterly curious was the way a human soul reacted to approval by people that acted as a parental figure for them. In a way it was completely unnecessary since the marriage was not even really one out of love; appreciation, yes, and Viktor knew for sure that Mila was good for him, that he could only hope he would be good for her as well in order to allow her to lead the life she wished for, but there was nothing that would have needed a father figure’s approval. If the approval had come from Viktor’s own father he probably would have immediately reached for a divorce. From Yakov, however, it meant something. He swallowed and looked down, once more wishing for something stronger than tea.

At some point Lilia Mikhailovna went over to a corner of the salon to show Mila their set of violins, which were of great interest to the musician who had to offer quite a few comments on them. It was then that Yakov Semyonovich fixated Viktor with a long stare and asked, low under his breath in an unusual display of subtlety, “So have you finally ended this…infatuation with the Japanese translator then, Vitya?“

Viktor bit the insides of his cheeks before he slightly shook his head. He did not bother lying; Yakov Semyonovich would have known immediately. He had always been one of the very few people in Viktor’s life who had been able to see through his false smiles and he had always ripped straight through them, relentless and ruthless, though never without mercy.

Now, however, Yakov Semyonovich let out a sharp breath and rubbed his eyes. “Vitya, Vitya…I fear for you. What is all this about if you didn’t marry Lyudmila Petrovna for love nor for concealing an accidental pregnancy? We both know it can’t be for financial reasons.“

“It isn’t,“ Viktor said.

“What is it then, boy?“ Yakov Semyonovich asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.

Viktor could have told him that he had done it so that people would stop talking about his allegedly wretched affairs, and it would not have been a lie. It had been one of the reasons, and an important one on top of that. And yet he looked down into his cup of slowly cooling tea and simply murmured, “I’m so tired, Yakov, I’m… afraid that one day I won’t wake up anymore if there is nobody to wake me up. I’m always so…cold. And I want to be with him, but I cannot leave Yuri. I will never, for as long as one of us lives.“

For a moment, Yakov Semyonovich said nothing while soft notes from the piano washed over them. Viktor watched Mila and Lilia Mikhailovna bent over the piano, talking to each other with open expressions and firm words. He startled a little when one of Yakov Semyonovich’s large, warm hands landed on his shoulder and simply remained there. The general’s eyes were gentle when Viktor looked up and into his face. “I want you to be happy one day, Vitya, b’ezrat hashem. And sometimes love and duty require a lot of personal sacrifice, I know that very well.“ For a moment his gaze wandered over towards Lilia Mikhailovna, a wistful expression on his face. “It is honorable of you to serve your country so well. But you won’t get any younger, not even by marrying a young woman, and at the end of the day you only have this one life in this world.“

“Do you sometimes feel,“ Viktor whispered, “as if God has abandoned you?“

Again, Yakov Semyonovich said nothing for a while and they both looked into the flickering flames licking against the stony edges of the fireside. “No,“ he finally said. “I am an old man by now – oh, we both know it, there is no need to pretend otherwise, my boy – and I think that I have been blessed in more ways than one, even though I could not see it for a long time. Now that I do, I am already old. But I have a wife who has never left me, even though we fought and quarreled and had a lot of problems for the entire length of our marriage and even though she often had to accept circumstances she did not like. I am healthy, as far as one can be healthy in my age, and I had a lot of success in my career so that I was able to resign peacefully, most importantly at peace with myself. I never had children of my own, yes.“ He took a deep breath and patted Viktor’s shoulder. “But I had you. And even though you are as flawed as the rest of us, even though you committed to certain matters I will never understand, I am very proud of the man you have become. I don’t regret many things I did or didn’t do, but I regret to see that you are hurting so much. I wish it was different, but changing that is upon yourself.“

“That is not what you would have told me twenty years ago,“ Viktor replied with a small laugh to cover the lump in his throat.  
Yakov Semyonovich smiled almost sadly. “I didn’t, but I was a different man back then. I am saying it now. That has to be enough.“

 

Viktor was deep in thought when they finally left the Feltsmans. He could feel that Mila was watching him carefully, but she did not say a word as they settled into the backseat of Viktor’s car before Viktor told the chauffeur to bring them to the Mereshkovsky. A certain restless energy had befallen him, of the sort he had not felt in quite a while. It had been an energy that had often accompanied him in his younger years and more often than not had caused him to act impulsively.

“We should get a telephone for the household,“ he said suddenly, “His Imperial Majesty might not want to use them, but I certainly can think of a few ways in which one of them could aid us.“

“Which of course has nothing to do with your lover in Paris,“ Mila commented, but she smiled and nodded in agreement. “That would be wonderful, actually, I could call Sara every week. Writing letters is nice enough, but sometimes I just want to hear her voice.“ She sighed. “I should go visit her again. I know we just came back, but maybe in two, three weeks, yes? I’m happy to be here for now and I do like connecting with old and new acquaintances, it’s necessary in a way, but I do miss her energy so very terribly. Oh! Which reminds me – oh, Vitya, I’m terribly sorry, but I forgot – you got up so late and by then it was already out of my mind. This came for you this morning.“ She reached into her bag and got out a letter which she handed over to him. “Look, I even took it with me to give it to you and then I forgot anyway. You married an idiot.“

“Don’t be silly,“ Viktor said softly and held the letter in his hands so carefully as if it was as fragile as a dead bird. In the darkness of the car, broken only by streetlights illuminating the backseat every now and then, he barely could make out his name on the envelope, written in Yuuri’s beautiful, careful letters. And yet it was enough to let him tremble: with surprise, with delight, with longing, so much longing that it stole his breath. He broke the seal carefully and began to read as best as was possible under the circumstances. Perhaps it was fortunate that the letter did not seem to be very long.

_Viktor_ , Yuuri had written in his small, strong handwriting, _I have tried to write this letter several times now. This is my last attempt, and I am afraid it will not be very satisfying. I have gotten the letter you wrote me after your return to Russia. Perhaps this letter seems to be so impossible because words do not seem to be enough to convey my feelings about your marriage. Therefore I would like to ask you to organize a telephone and call me at the French embassy under Christophe’s branch connection on the _ of March at _. I will be there and I desperately hope to hear your voice again – it has been too long. Hopefully I will find you in agreement that we need to talk. Yours – hopefully yours, Y.K. <_

“Viktor,“ Mila said softly. He flinched violently when her hand touched his wrist and she hastily drew back, her eyes wide and very blue in the half-darkness. “You’re shaking. What’s wrong?“

Viktor closed his eyes and hid his face against the cool leather of the seat. “I think you were right. I shall get a telephone as soon as possible.“ 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever manage to have a proper upload schedule? Probably not. But at least there‘s more, so that‘s something?  
> Thank you to everyone who commented and kudo‘d this - writing this story takes a lot of effort and I still think that I don‘t do it justice, but I‘m always encouraged by your kind words, enough to get myself together and write until I‘m done. <3 This chapter is mostly personal drama, but there‘s some murder as well, so that‘s something I guess. By the way, Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife were super cute together and it‘s pretty sad that they were on something resembling a romantic vacation when they were assassinated.

The days until the phone call were unbearable for Yuuri.  
He was pretty sure that he in turn was unbearable for others as well, even though people were quite friendly towards him. But he could feel it, that restless sort of nervousness that tied him down to one spot like a pinned down butterfly trying to escape his fate. It did not help that things looked rather dire in a political way as well; something was underfoot, something that was brewing and brewing. Serbia was restless these days, and Yuuri and Chris watched the situation between Austria-Hungary and Serbia with growing concern.  
It was March and finally the snow was slowly melting. Spring in Paris was always beautiful, but Yuuri barely found time to slow down and appreciate it. His thoughts were always elsewhere, these days, always away from his own life and heart. Waiting proved to be so very difficult that he was jittering with nerves. Chris proved to be a good, loyal friend who made sure that Yuuri did not forget to eat and had his appointments in order. When the day of the phone call arrived, Chris brought him into his office and then went out, shutting the door firmly behind him. Standing at Chris‘ desk and staring down at the telephone, Yuuri listened to Chris giving his secretary the order that he was not to be disturbed until Yuuri himself decided to leave, then all went quiet save for the rush of blood in Yuuri’s ears. For a while he just stood there and stared and breathed, hands curled into fists so tight that his fingertips were pulsing where he had cut off his bloodstream.  
The telephone rang. Yuuri jumped, then sat down, took a deep breath and picked up.  
“This is Ambassador Yuuri Katsuki from Ambassador Christophe Giacometti’s office,“ he said and mentally congratulated himself for his steady voice.  
“Good morning, Ambassador,“ a female voice replied, “there is a call for you from St. Petersburg by Major General Viktor Ivanovich Nikiforov. Would you like to take it?“  
“Put him through, please.“  
“My pleasure.“  
For a moment there was nothing but the crackling noise of the connection, then Yuuri could hear a sharp breath and immediately clutched the receiver tightly enough to hurt. “Yuuri?“  
“Vitya,“ he whispered and hated how his voice cracked at last. This – this was the closest he had been to Viktor for weeks, months now even, and it was merely the ghost of his voice. It was too much. It could never be enough.  
He could hear Viktor take in a deep breath again, as if the man had to pull himself together again as well, and there was something incredibly comforting in the knowledge that he was not alone in this, at least. “I am glad to hear you,“ Viktor breathed and once more Yuuri’s chest filled to the brim with quite a lot of emotions at the thought of Viktor sitting at the other end of the line, miles and miles away from him, yet moved in a rather similar fashion. “I missed you. I missed your voice.“  
“I missed you as well,“ Yuuri said after a slight pause and closed his eyes. God, but this was so difficult. This was so difficult and cruel and unpleasant, he did not want to do it at all, but he had to. He had to, because Viktor would avoid the discussion for as long as he could and that would do both of them no favors. There was a hard edge to his voice that was difficult to miss as the anger in him inevitably rose and rose, lept right into his throat. “And yet you think it is a sufficient way to tell me that you went to Italy and married a woman I have never heard of before just like that via letter. Truly, I find it startling to think of how much you must have missed me to go off and get engaged.“  
He could hear Viktor swallow thickly and pictured his face with perfect clarity. The pang in his chest at that did nothing to lessen the tightness of his chest. “I – understand that it was a surprise-“  
“No, I don’t think you understand at all, Viktor,“ Yuuri interrupted him, his voice so irritated now that his anger was almost palpable. “You don’t understand how I feel at all. God damn you-“ What was worse, Yuuri thought, his own anger or the way his voice broke with tears that oscillated between anger and a deep, utter sadness that came from a life he could not seem to have, no matter how much they both wanted it? “How could you do that? Why did you do that?“  
“I….it was impossible to travel to France and tell you in person, I considered it for a while, but…“  
“But?“  
There was silence for a while and Yuuri closed his eyes again as he thought of the man Viktor had once been upon their first meeting, both of them so young, so young and unbruised. Viktor would have come for him in younger years for sure, without thinking of the consequences and without batting an eyelash; now even he hesitated in the face of matters that were so much larger than the both of them. What a pity it was that they could not be other people with other lives.  
“I’m not twenty anymore,“ Viktor said very softly. When Yuuri merely sighed deeply as he was confirmed in his thoughts, his lover continued, “Perhaps it was not the best choice, yes. But you know that technological advances have been slow here in Russia, so it was hard to acquire a telephone. And I wasn’t sure whether I would even be able to reach you at the French embassy, I am not very good with all these new technologies.“ He breathed out and Yuuri imagined him press his knuckles against the one eye he had left, as he was wont to do when life proved too difficult to handle and he was overcome by emotion. “I didn’t want to hurt you.“  
“No,“ Yuuri said after a rather long pause and thought of all the ways life had broken him and Viktor, and how life never managed to make him doubt their feelings for each other, not even now. But sometimes it was not enough to love. Life was cruel that way, always had been. “I never thought you wanted to. But the point is – you did it anyway. And I don’t understand why. If this marriage is loveless, as you say – at least in a romantic way – and your heart still belongs to me, why are you living with her and not with me?“  
“Because I can never have both!“ It startled Yuuri, the violent intensity with which the words broke out of Viktor. He heard him breathe in deeply and then somehow it seemed that he could not stop breathing in, it came in short gasps and hitches that each fractured Yuuri’s heart until it seemed to hold together only by mere strings. “It is not possible, having you with me and taking care of Yura at the same time. Russia binds me, and I let myself be bound because that boy is like a son to me. I would call him my own if there was any chance to do so. I thought of every way to make it happen without having it end in a tragedy for one or all of us, but there is not a single one. You don’t know what it does to me, this half-life – always alone with my thoughts and the dreams, I haven’t slept properly in ages, but….but having a person that I cherish and who I don’t pay to work for me in my house helps. Am I sure it was a good idea? No. But it helped her lead a life with more freedom than I ever had and I feel less alone. There is someone I can talk to at least, if it gets unbearable. The alternative would have been sitting down and putting a bullet through my head.“  
Yuuri did not answer. He couldn’t, not with the way his throat was blocked by the tears dripping down onto the wooden desk and the lump that made speaking so impossible. How wounded the man he loved was, how helpless he was with all the miles and miles stretched between them. It was not fair, all of it. It was not fair, but it also was not fair to himself. The endless waiting was tearing him down bit by bit, day by day, and he could not do it any longer.  
“I wish you could talk to me,“ Yuuri finally said, his voice cracking as much as the line, “I wish you could be here with me so that I could hold you every night. I wish you could – dearest, I…I wish you would see that you’re not the only one hurting, you have no idea how hard the distance is on me. It’s been years and I feel as if we’re treading on the spot. I thought we could have some sort of a life here in Paris – Yura is not that young anymore, you’ll have to leave his side at one point, don’t you?“  
“He is sixteen.“ Viktor pressed his fingernails deeply enough into the palm of his hand that he could feel the imprints. “I wish I could change many things for us, I really do. And…if you….what I want to say is that…I want you to be happy. I want you to live the life you want to live. And if you have the feeling that you cannot live that life with me-“  
“No,“ Yuuri interrupted him resolutely because he had to be, otherwise they would leave matters as they were again and that would do them no good. “You listen to me now. You deserve to be happy as well. You are the man I love and you deserve to be happy. The way you live now, it makes you sick. I don’t know if living with me would make you less sick, but you have to make decisions. We never know what tomorrow will bring. We only have today. I know you love that boy, I know how much you sacrificed for him already, but the thing is – if you have to sacrifice more and more and more for him, at some point you will start to hate him, if you want to or not. You will hate him because he will not understand what you have done and given up for his sake, not because he is a bad person, but because he is young and will have to make his own sacrifices when he is older. Do you understand what I am telling you? I cannot tell you how to live your life or which decisions to make, but please…please come to me. We can still be together. We can still have a life together, it’s not too late. The way it is, I can feel us drift apart. Let’s work on this and make it better. Please. Otherwise we need to end it.“  
“Don’t do this to me,“ Viktor whispered.  
“You’re already doing it to yourself,“ Yuuri replied, “and you’re doing it to me. I’ve done nothing but wait for you, wait for you and work for a hopefully better world. Both is – both is making me tired, Vitya. The world is cruel and doesn’t care for one tiny little person, but you are not the world – you are the man I love and I expect from you not to hurt me.“  
Viktor’s voice was ragged, hoarse and close to crying. Yuuri hunched his shoulders and tried to be stronger than he felt. “I would never. Never wanted to, Yuuri. But I need more time. Just a few more years until Yura is older and stronger. He won’t need me anymore, then.“  
“And what about me?“ Yuuri asked quietly. “I need you now as well. And I want to be there for you, make everything a little better. But I won’t sit around and wait until you have got time for me. I already – so many years, Vitya, I’ve already waited so many years for you. You’ve got to understand, I’m not angry. Just…“  
“Yes,“ Viktor said after a long time. His voice was so empty that Yuuri curled into himself, trying to shield himself from the awful, awful pain in his chest. “I understand, love. I haven’t been fair to you, and I’m sorry.“  
“I’m sorry, too,“ Yuuri whispered. Now that the anger had left him, there was nothing left but ashes. It would have been easier if he had not still been in love with Viktor, now and forever. That had not changed and probably never would.  
“Well,“ Viktor said very softly, “then this will be my last sacrifice, it seems. Perhaps then they will let me rest.“  
Yuuri wanted to scream at him, but his voice had left him. All the words had left him, and along with them went his spirit. When he left Christophe’s office he was blind and mute, not hearing, not speaking, not seeing.  
He barely remembered time passing. The weather steadily got warmer, the sun stronger, and at some point he changed from a coat to a lighter one, then none at all. He wore a hat and ate twice a day, sat in conferences and councils and listened, but only spoke when prompted. His heart was so heavy that it steadily dragged him down. He was living underwater, his surroundings muted and colorless. The apartment he had rented was too big for one person, but somehow he could not muster the strength to look for a smaller place. It did not matter, he told himself; it did not matter that the light he had found so perfect for Viktor’s paintings seemed grey, that his bed was too big and the bathroom too flashy for himself. It did not matter that the only music he could stand listening to was Rachmaninov, or that he cried every time he listened to Liebesleid, or that he could not bear any more social contact than necessary. Every day passed in a sluggish, weak state where he had to force himself to do even the smallest things if others did not take care to help him do them.   
And then the world decided that his time to grieve for what could have been had run out.   
On June, 28th of 1914 Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria and his lovely wife Sophie, Duchess of Hohenberg, where in Sarajevo to celebrate their fourteenth wedding anniversary. It was for love the archduke went to his death; his wife, though of noble birth, was not of royal blood and thus the only loophole where she could enjoy the recognition of her husband’s rank was when Franz Ferdinand acting in military capacity. And thus they boarded their open carriage hand in hand, and for sure they shared a few smiles in those last minutes of life they had left and hopefully they experienced a few minutes of happiness before Gavrilo Princip and his helpers murdered them on the open street near the Latin Bridge.  
The news of the assassination that arrived in Paris startled Yuuri out of his slump so forcefully that it felt like a slap. In the matter of a few hours, Europe was thrown into a frenzy. While Yuuri had to contact the Japanese government in order to understand his further role and the stance he had to represent, Christophe sat in one councily after the other. When between and the 5th and the 6th of July Germany issued the Blankoscheck to Austria-Hungary where Emperor Wilhelm II. gave them their unconditional support in case of war, Christophe came to Yuuri with serious eyes and a frown around his usually smiling mouth.  
They stood together at Yuuri’s parlour and looked at each other, not only as friends but as diplomats first and foremost, which was a terrible but necessary thing.  
“I’ll be frank with you,“ Chris said finally with a sigh, “because you are my friend and because I trust you. I was asked to accompany the minister to St. Petersburg in order to make Russia allies of France. They will stand with Serbia against Austria-Hungary and Germany for sure.“  
Yuuri frowned. “There was that telegram from the 7th of July where they said that they would not stand against an Austrian investigation of the murders in Sarajevo, though.“  
Chris waved his hand dismissively. “That’s not of importance. Serbia won’t allow Austrian meddling in the investigation and there will be war, we don’t have to pretend otherwise. We need to sort out who’s on which side as quickly as possible, and the biggest question mark here is Russia. Their internal conflict is brewing as we speak and some might not be convinced that they’ll really support Serbia in case of war, but I know the tsar and his panslavic approach.“  
“I know him well, too,“ Yuuri muttered darkly before he sighed. “It does not matter. Japan wishes for my presence in Russia as well, so I guess we will be travelling partners.“  
And he would see Viktor again, perhaps. He did not know what to make of that.  
As if he could read his thoughts Chris‘ eyes softened and he placed a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “You know what they always say,“ he said softly, “a difficult travel is always a little easier with a friend on your side. Let’s prepare ourselves as best as we can, then. At least we’ll for sure write history.“


End file.
